


Calculations of a Dim Witted Genius

by castiel_in_his_cell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:19:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castiel_in_his_cell/pseuds/castiel_in_his_cell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a look into Sherlock's head on an ordinary day, to explore how he functions on a daily basis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calculations of a Dim Witted Genius

Tick tick tick tick tick tick……The streets are graphed with white lines as the background of the scene turns a dark blue hue. The width of that store, the circumference of the fire hydrant and the slope of the seemingly flat road are all annotated onto my carefully designed diagram. The hardwiring of each and every miniscule detail are visualized as a wire intertwined into a hard drive and graphed onto the walls of every shop I pass, and every window I peer through. All the world’s a battle field, but mine in particular is precise and prepared like the map of a building. Or a blue print of a war. 

Wait, stop. Where am I?

He looks around the street he has carefully examined but the day dream he had endeavoured in shatters, and he realises he is unfamiliar with these parts. Even in his confusion, he makes none of his true thoughts evident in his behaviour. His steady walk does not falter; he does not turn his head and look around in doubt, nor do his eyes drift here and there in uncertainty. He concludes that he must have walked here in a daze. The wonder only lasts for a split second. The gears in his mind start to churn again in acute calculation, and he recognizes he is at 407 Edinburg Street. 

What was I doing then? Ah yes, I told John I was going to the grocery store. Boring. Looks like that’s not happening.

He turns precisely one hundred and eighty degrees sharply as his long fitted coat spirals swiftly at his ankles. He then starts to make his way back the way he came. 

Tick. The streets are once again graphed with white lines as the scene turns a dark blue hue. 

His mind is engineered to restart. 

Now, where was I? Oh right, the perimeter of that sewer is perfect to drop a body into. Absolutely perfect. The limp in that lady’s walk clearly indicates that she has suffered from congenital malformations. Boring. The constant contact he is engaging in with his inner elbow suggests he is an ex-heroin dealer. Boring. She can’t stand her job. Boring. He’s having an affair. Boring. She’s lying. Boring. Boring, boring, BORING. 

A ball bounces down the street and into his hands. 

Fascinating. 

He looks up from the classic red rubber ball to face a young girl. She’s about eight years of age, and her clothes don’t seem to be worn, but instead seem to hang off her fragile frame of bones. A yellow ribbon clings to her bouncy, innocent ponytail and her eyes look up at him in wonder and overjoyed astonishment. She makes a deduction.

“You’re detective Sherlock Holmes!”

The youthful clatter of her words are enunciated with every sound. The words don’t seem to roll off her tongue in a slurred manner, but instead are precisely pronounced, like a dart hitting a target. 

There is a pause. The automatic calculations come whirling in at once. The deductions flood into his head like an uncontrollable sea of waves, a sea that is thrashing wildly. He then collects each piece of information, tucks it in an imaginary folder, and saves it into his hard drive at a truly unbelievable speed. 2 seconds have passed. Now his folders are organised and manageable. 

It could be that the Great Sherlock Holmes sees everything, knows everything. But aside from his self-portrayal as a God-like genius, his fallible characteristics of an ordinary human being always seem to leak through his intellect. 

8 year old, 4 pounds underweight, middle class family, high chance of muscle problems when passed the age of 45 and has a brother named Harry. Done. 

“Mr. Holmes? Hello?”

Oh no. How to respond...how to respond... What am I supposed to say? What is she expecting me to say? Okay. Calm down. Where’s the file for “List of Socially Acceptable Things to say to Children”? Ah here it is. 

“Hello…there…” He says slowly.

“It’s so nice to meet you!” The little girl jumps up in excitement.

What should I say? Where are your parents? No, if she was an orphan she would be greatly offended. It’s nice to meet you too? No, because that would be lying. What’s your name? But I don’t want to know what her name is. I don’t want to know anything about her. But she seems so sweet. I don't want to hurt her. I’m not interested in talking to her. Conclusion: walk away.

Sherlock turns around swiftly and heads back the way he came. 

“Mr. Holmes?” He asks from behind him.

“Mr. Holmes?” A little louder this time.

But he keeps walking, either completely oblivious to her voice, or simply choosing not to invest his time in her. Nevertheless, she has already lost him. He has been swept back into his computational fantasy. Tick tick tick tick tick tick……

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! I might do another fic like this with a plot ; )


End file.
